


Commanders Oath

by Nikkie2010, siriuslyfeisty



Series: Oathbound [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Other, mention of Ratchet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7245964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikkie2010/pseuds/Nikkie2010, https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslyfeisty/pseuds/siriuslyfeisty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jazz and Prowl reflect in the aftermath of a battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Commanders Oath

“Ya did your best…” the whispered words were barely audible above the howl of the icy wind. His door wings flicked as they tracked the silent approach of the saboteur.

Jazz wove his way through the still frames and stopped beside the Praxian. Carefully he extended his field to brush against Prowl's own. The latter pulled his field in tight.

Prowl's optics scanned the pock-marked battlefield, a small tremor ran down his door wings. The terminated remains of their mechs lay scattered around him like worthless toys from a sparklings playset - cast aside, broken and forgotten. He shuttered his optics briefly. I am sorry.

“Prowl.” Jazz started then clamped his mouth. Dust danced in the shadows as the tiny particles were whipped into a frenzy by the unforgiving gusts. The grey armour of the dead rattled and whispered to them, tinted scarlet by the setting sun.

”How many neutrals survived?” Prowl intoned, navy optics locked on a distant form, partially obscured by the drifting smoke.

Jazz shivered and pulled his armour tight. “’bout fifteen,” he paused, optics straying to the side. “but Ratch got several critical in surgery now.

“And of our soldiers?”

Jazz glanced to the side, biting the inside of his cheek. Faces danced before his vision, familiar faces. He drew a deep vent. “Yeah…our mechs.” He ducked his chin and released the air slowly, willing the faces into the deepest archives of his processors. “Maybe thirty.” Statistics. That’s what those grinning faces had become. He glanced at Prowl, knowing he was waiting for the reports. Jazz balled his fist. It could really wait. He pinged Prowl the reports.

Prowl never acknowledged the reports – he didn’t blink, shift, catch his vent or anything as his battle-computer analysed the report, and added it to the overall statistics of the battle. The wind blew some of the thick smoke over the battle-field, and carried the acrid stench of their burning kindred to them. His battle-computer pinged him with the completed analysis. The smooth metallic skin around his optics tightened. “25% survival rate.”

The lack of any expression in Prowl's field chilled Jazz to his core, the emotionless tones of his fellow commander echoing in his audios. He wanted to reach out, to comfort…but how can you comfort someone when you are as broken as them?

Jazz tensed, thrown back into the battle for a spark-beat. Struggling to block the decepticon's attack, terminating the one only to hear the laughter of another as he slew the neutral he fought so desperately to save.

Prowl finally turned from the field of death to focus his dull gaze on his living companion. “We lost 75% of the mechs we brought to defend this neutral camp. And saved barely fifteen neutrals.”

Prowl's statement derailed Jazz’s thoughts, jerking him back, the ghosts of their failure still in his processor. “Ratchet’s workin’ on a few.” Jazz grumbled, locking his gaze with the other. They would survive. Ratchet would see to it. “That raises the stats.”

Prowl’s gaze hardened, the cables in his jaw pulling tight. “Barely.” He ground out, then seemed to catch himself. The door wings lifted and he blinked, once more hiding behind his blank façade. He turned once more to the battle-field.

Jazz swallowed and stared into the distance. His optics landed on the same point of focus as Prowl’s – a lone silhouette observing the battle-field. The axe was held loosely in the figure’s hand as the dark smoke took him in and out of hiding. His spark constricted at the sight of their Prime kneeling next to a fallen mech.

“Seventy-five warriors, two hundred-and-fifty neutrals.” Prowl murmured, shaking his helm slowly. “Primus forgive me, I did not save more.”

“ Ya did your best, Prowl. ” Jazz whispered again, moving closer to the rigid figure.

“It was not enough." Prowl lowered his helm and placed a hand over his optics, door wings tucking.

Reaching forward Jazz gently wrapped a clawed hand around his companion’s arm. “There was nothing more to be done.” He gave a gentle squeeze before he withdrew his hand, the warmth gone in an instant.

“It does not matter,” Prowl replied dully, his optics returning to the kneeling figure. “I must explain my failure to our Prime.” He carefully took a step forward.

Jazz turned slightly away, unable to look upon their leader among the dead any longer. “My spark’s too stained...” his voice faded away as he crossed his arms over his chassis, visor flickering.

Prowl paused, his door wings tilted as he watched Jazz. “No worse then mine,” he answered softly, a rueful smile tainting his lips. He drew a deep vent, steeling himself. He stepped over the deceased at his feet, careful not to disturb them. He approached their Prime.

Jazz followed slowly, but stopped several lengths off. He had failed their Prime. His spark sank, the burdens of his crimes committed in the name of war crushing his spark – how could he face the Prime? His optics darted to Prowl, he took a hesitant step forward. Prowl needed him. He shouldn’t have to be there alone.

Prowl shivered, but whether from the coldness brought on by the tendrils of dusk or the coldness that never seemed to leave his spark anymore he couldn’t tell. He felt the supportive, but guilt-ridden field of his fellow officer. Some of the ice thawed. Not alone. He bowed his helm, door wings flared out in respect. For the Prime was also the Chosen of Primus. His report to Prime was also given to their god, Primus. And this orn, they had failed him.

Optimus Prime knew the living had arrived, but he did not immediately acknowledge them as his optics rested on the grey frames. The rites of the dead had not been read to them, and they would not get the burial they deserved. His entire frame hurt, the Matrix bleeding within him. As their Prime, he had failed to protect them as he was sworn to do.

His sensors fixed on the mechs standing behind him. He didn’t need to turn to see the Praxian, mourning their people in his own silent way, or the Polyhexian, believing himself to be unredeemable. He drew a deep vent as he surveyed the carnage once more. The dead were with Primus, but he was among the living. They looked to him for guidance, for hope. He shuttered his optics The future of Cybertron was at stake, and had he the choice – he would do whatever it took to stop the madness that Megatron so carelessly flirted with. He raised his helm and squared his shoulders. Standing among the remains of their warriors and their civilians, he turned to face his commanders.


End file.
